The Living Corpse
The old funeral parlor had been absorbed into the Mercer townhouse decades ago, the way rich families absorbed sins: behind paneling, under fresh varnish, beneath a name that sounded respectable in winter light.
The front room still had the bones of its first purpose.
Tall windows.
Rough floorboards.
A ceiling too high for comfort.
Old framed portraits watching from the walls as if they had already judged the living and found them disappointing.
The coffin rested in the center on a low platform, dark walnut under black mourning cloth. White chrysanthemums crowded the lid so tightly they seemed less like flowers than a soft attempt to smother the truth.
Ethan Mercer came through the doorway without taking off his coat.
A gust of Chicago cold followed him in.
Every head turned.
Some faces were family. Some were board members. Some were neighbors who had come because the Mercers had money, not because they had love.
Ethan saw none of them at first.
He saw the coffin.
His knees struck the floorboards beside it.
The sound traveled through the room, ugly and human.
“Dad.”
His hand landed on the lid.
Then the other.
He hit the wood once, then again, not in anger yet, only in panic. Flower stems scraped and shifted. A line of petals slid to the floor like little pieces of bone.
“Let me see him,” Ethan said. “Please. Let me see my father.”
In the narrow darkness under his palm, Richard Mercer’s eyes snapped open.
There was no room to sit up. No room to turn his head fully. His gray hair was flattened against the coffin wall, sweat cooling at his temples. Black tape cut across his mouth, tight enough to pull at the rough skin around his cheeks.
He heard his son.
For one second, the terror in him became hope so sharp it hurt.
Richard tried to shout.
The tape turned it into a wet, trapped sound.
Above him, Ethan froze.
A woman crossed the room before anyone else could move.
Helen Graves did not rush. She never rushed. Even grief was supposed to take permission from her.
Her black mourning gown dragged over the old floorboards. Her short auburn hair was tucked behind one ear. The small diamond at her throat caught the window light without warmth.
“Ethan,” she said softly.
He looked up with red eyes and a cut on his lower lip he did not remember getting.
“When did this happen?” he asked. “Why didn’t anyone call me sooner?”
“I did call.”
“No.”
Her fingers closed on his shoulder.
The pressure looked gentle to everyone else. Ethan felt the nails.
“You cannot open it,” Helen said.
The room breathed in with her.
Ethan stared at her.
Helen lowered her voice, but not enough to keep the doorway from hearing.
“Your father had a disease. A very contagious disease.”
The word disease moved through the mourners faster than any prayer.
A woman near the mantel touched her pearls.
A board member stepped back.
The young funeral assistant beside the archway lowered her eyes.
Ethan’s hands hovered over the coffin, poisoned by fear.
Inside, Richard twisted until pain flashed white behind his eyes.
He tried to make the sound again.
This time, no one moved.
Helen leaned toward Ethan’s ear.
“Do not make this uglier than you already have.”
May you like
Ethan looked at the flowers.
A single chrysanthemum trembled, though no one had touched it.
